


They're Only Words

by Boffin1710, Dassandre



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, M/M, Pre-Slash, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Q (James Bond) is a Holmes, Q is a bad ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26944432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/pseuds/Boffin1710, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/Dassandre
Summary: “We’re all too bloody busy, and until you complete the required Psych evaluation, you are banned from your Branch.  Get it done, Q!”Q faces off with Psych and finds an unexpected ally along the way.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 147





	They're Only Words

**Author's Note:**

> Found this whilst digging around in the files. We meant it to go out as part of 007 Fest. Only two and a half months late.
> 
> Whilst not the main focus of this story, one of the characters is an individual on the Autism spectrum. It is important to note that no one's life as an individual on that spectrum, or the people who care for and about them, is the same as any other person's experience.

“You have somehow managed to avoid this mandatory part of your employment for 18 months, Quartermaster. No longer.” Mallory slid a folder across the dark mahogany desktop towards him. “I’ve had notification after notification from Psych about your lack of attendance for scheduled appointments. Now they have become irate demands.”

“I have a branch to manage: R&D, agents, missions...”

“You can stop right there Quartermaster before you say the words ‘I’ve been too busy.’” Mallory stood, opening the folder in front of him, fanning out the multitude of memos from Psych in regards to his bad behaviour. “We’re all too bloody busy, and until you complete the required Psych evaluation, you are banned from your Branch. Get it done, Q!”

“Sir... I....”

“Directly to Psych. Now, Quartermaster!”

“I...”

“Now!”

Papers skidded out of the folder that Q shoved back across the desk at Mallory before literally turning on his heel and stomping out of his office. Probably not one of his most adult moves, but... 

“Perhaps he should be reminded of the fact that I sign off on his agency car as well as the security systems at his residence?!” He hissed at Moneypenny as he passed her desk. 

“And I _will_ find a Double-O to escort you there if needs be!” Mallory called after him. 

Two hours later, Q was interrupted by a knock and a rich, deep baritone. “Quartermaster?” 

Q’s sigh was long and put upon, and when he looked up from the rebreather he was redesigning, it was to see Rand Aguilar leaning with one shoulder against the doorway, one leg crossed over the other. Hidden away deep in the bowels of the Churchill tunnels, Q didn’t think anyone other than R knew about this particular lab.

“I see Mallory decided to make good on his threat. Did you draw the short straw, 009?”

The look on the man’s face was chagrined but determined. Q liked Rand. Smart, focused, and unlike many of the other Double-Os, he actually listened the _first_ time when Q gave directions to him in the field. 

“After a fashion,” Aguilar conceded. “M had to order it, though. An afternoon spent with the headshrinkers is not my idea of a good time, either, but … well, orders.”

Q chewed at the inside of his cheek, nodded once, and began cleaning up his mess. “Who sold me out?” he asked, nodding at the lab as he packed away his tools.

Aguilar grinned. It was a nice one, Q conceded. “No one. This place isn’t as off the grid as you’d like to believe. There are a few of us in the know but understand you need a quiet place sometimes to think and work. Mallory is _not_ one of those, by the way. Nor do I intend to inform him.”

“Ta for that, I suppose.” Q handed him the small case containing the rebreather and his kit. “If you’d just run that up to R, I’ll head over to Psych, I suppose.”

Rand shook his head. “No can do, Quartermaster. Direct escort.”

Q bristled. “Want to clap me in irons to help ensure delivery?”

Aguilar cocked an eyebrow and looked at the slim pair of wrists his Quartermaster held out in front of him. “Irons, no. Pair of nice, butter-soft, leather cuffs might be fun, though,” he said with a wink. 

Q started then laughed. “It’s always the quiet ones,” he muttered.

Like a prisoner being led to the gallows, Q walked slowly towards Psych, Rand a few steps behind him. The MI6 staff they met along the way moved aside allowing them to pass making him wonder if the look on his face was truly that grim. He couldn’t be arsed overly much, though, because to him, this truly was a death march. 

God how he hated Psych. Probably more than any of the agents, if the truth be told. They were the ones that needed these visits. Not him. These appointments were intrusive and redundant, asking questions that related to nothing and were, if anything, utterly annoying.

“Thank you for your escort, 009. I’m sure M will be grateful that you delivered me safe and sound.” Reaching the outer door of the MI6 medical wing, Q dismissed him. 

“In you go, Quartermaster,” Rand urged. “Not getting away so easily. As soon as I’m around the corner, you’ll be in the wind. My orders are to see you delivered directly into the hands of Dr. Pelshaw, who happens to be waiting for you.”

Fuck! Dr. Margaret Pelshaw. Q sighed and rolled his eyes. MI6 Psych Witch of Fame who could bring errant agents to their knees. Of course, she’d been the one assigned to the Quartermaster. 

This would be a true battle of the stubborn deities.

“I’ll be here when you’re done.” 

Q stopped short amid the automatic doors and turned. His glare and the salty quip on his tongue died when Rand continued, “Umm … if you’d like, that is. I’ve not been ordered to. Sometimes a drink, or five, helps after all the shite they stir up and try to drag out of you. Especially Pelshaw.”

“I …” Q was surprised and confused by the offer. He had to remind himself to take such things at face value. With the exception of Eve, who knew him better than he knew himself, and possibly R, people didn’t rush to befriend him, finding him too quirky and odd and off-putting. He’d never excelled at social situations. They made him anxious, so he tended to avoid them, but he did rather like Aguilar. As far as Double-Os went, he was one of the more level-headed of the bunch. And after chewing on his offer for a moment, Q decided it wasn’t unwelcome. In fact, it might make things a tad easier inside knowing someone was here outside … waiting. “Yes, please. I think I’d like that.”

Aguilar smiled broadly and nodded at the doors. “Go on, then. Off you pop. Torture now, drinks after. I’ll run this over to R,” he gestured with the case Q had given him, “then wait here 'til you’re done.”

In spite of his dread, Q couldn’t help but chuckle. He turned and strode into the facility. “Once more into the breach …” he muttered.

Pelshaw’s lair, like most of the others where the demon doctors of Psych dwelled, was decorated in soft greens and greys with comfortable chairs and a sofa. Things that were psychologically designed to soothe but really only pricked at Q’s annoyance and disdain. He’d experienced far too many similar offices in his childhood. He just didn’t want to fucking be here.

At all.

And Pelshaw knew it.

“I know you’d rather be a thousand other places than where you are now, Quartermaster. Why is that? Please don’t deflect by telling me you’ve been too busy. There’s not one of us in Six that can’t claim the same. Why have you been avoiding this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Q responded cooly.

“Wouldn’t you say these sessions, for everyone, help to keep the Service running smoothly?” 

“Wouldn’t you say that pulling me away from running my branch hinders the running efficiency of the Service?”

“So is this how we are going to play this out, Quartermaster?” Pelshaw made a few notes on the folder in front of her. “Question for question? Telling but tiresome. Time will pass much easier for both of us if we just get to it and not play these games.”

“Games? I don’t play games, Maggie.” He smirked, using the hated derivative of her first name rather than her title of Doctor. 

Other than making another notation in her folder, ‘Maggie’ did not take the bait but tossed the line right back to him. “Very well, Matisse. If we both agree we’re not going to play games, let’s get started then.” 

Q was proud of himself that he didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. The fuck? His true name wasn’t in any of his records. _Anywhere_ . Those very few outside of his family who _did_ know assumed Matt was short for Matthew, and he’d never done anything to disabuse them of that notion. 

“Matisse. A very unique name. I’m particularly fond of his work. _Odalisque_ is my favourite of his paintings. I’ve made a point of going to the Stedelijk whenever I’m in Amsterdam so I can see it. Did your parents take you to see any of the works of your namesake when you were a child?”

“I believe we’ve had the discussion before, and any questions regarding my family are off-limits, Eyes Only. And if my memory serves me right, _you_ are not on that list… _Maggie_.” And the Quartermaster did sneer at her this time. “My eidetic memory never fails me, either.”

“A tad touchy about your family, Quartermaster.” Pelshaw scribbled something in her files. 

“You do that just to provoke me.”

“We’ll come back to that in a little bit. Moving on. Since becoming Quartermaster, you have run an impressive 1438 missions. You have lost… how many agents in this time?” Pelshaw paused, looking Q directly in the eye. 

“You know exactly how many. It’s in your file.”

“Yes, I do. But do _you_ know?”

Of course, he bloody knew the numbers. He began tapping them out with his fingers against the arm of his chair. Then he caught what he was doing and stilled his hand. Stop it! he chastised himself. 

“I have lost three Double-O agents, eight field agents, and there have been 823 collateral damage deaths.” Q quoted her without a show of emotion, holding his ground, not giving her an inch. He squeezed his toes in his brogues to keep himself from counting again.

“And yet those are merely numbers. Statistics. Bodies without faces and lives and loved ones. Perhaps there was one who named their child after an artist they loved. What do you know about the people who have died, Quartermaster? Anything at all?”

“More than _you_ will ever will.” 

Pelshaw smirked and gestured at her computer where her files and notes were stored. “I know a great many things about people who share with me.”

“And the ones who don’t? Or what about the ones not in your immediate sphere of ... “ he gestured lamely in an attempt to categorise just what it was she did, “mind-bending influence? The 823 collateral deaths, for instance.”

“And you do?” Pelshaw’s cocked eyebrow was enough to indicate what she thought of the Quartermaster’s boast.

Rather than give in to his urge to twist in his seat as he’d so often done as a child when placed under the microscope, Q settled into his chair, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap, quite ready to tackle this head-on. “002’s op in Dar es Salaam last month. Eight civilian casualties. Among them, five children under the age of ten. Amidah Sibale, age three, was buried with her favourite toy, a giraffe named Igo. Emmanuel Nyondo was 18. Had been accepted to study Creative Writing at the University of Edinburgh. I could tell you stories about the other six, but what about 002? What about Elias? Though I’m sure you know how he intended to propose to his girlfriend when he got back from Africa. Lovely ring. Emeralds, not diamonds, to match her eyes. You’d have that on your computer, of course. Unfortunately, Margot will never get that ring. Never become Mrs Elias Inthapatha. Nor will she know exactly how or why he died. Just that he’s gone. What about 008? But she’d have told _you_ how excited she was that she’d finally finished the rebuild on her vintage ‘67 Triumph Bonneville. Jaina was going to take it on a road trip through France and Belgium. See some of the towns where her ancestors came from. Not after Dubai, though.”

Pelshaw knew the Quartermaster could quote her statistics all day long. Eidetic memory allowed that, but it also didn’t allow him _any_ escape from the monumental details that came along with his position in the Service. Day in and day out, the Quartermaster dealt with death just as his agents did, quite often even more so. 

“Memories that I assume you would not like to carry with you.” Q ignored her poke and didn’t take the bait.

“Why don’t we talk about what I am assured is a better memory. What is the first thing you remember doing with your parents or family?” Pelshaw smiled at him, a smile that reminded Q of a dog getting ready to chuck up something bad it had eaten. 

“Why don’t we not.” He simply stated. “My parents, family, and life previous to my employment by MI6 is not relevant.”

“Who one is and how we perceive life is an outcome of how we have been raised. Don’t you agree, Quartermaster?” 

“My life before the Service is none of your concern and does not exist. Has not existed since I became Quartermaster and is still Eyes Only status. Something which hasn’t changed since this conversation started.”

“Not in the last ten minutes, you’re right about that,” she folded her hands neatly atop the folder on her lap. “Your data is a tad outdated, I’m afraid. M read me into your file, your _complete_ file, yesterday afternoon, Matisse Edward Benoit Holmes.”

Q was going to kill Mallory.

Quite painfully. 

Definitely slowly.

Pelshaw’s eyes flicked from his face to his hands. She grinned. He unclenched his fists and only barely managed to keep them from shooting into his hair to tug on it. Hard. Hard until he tore his hair from their roots.

But then he heard his elder brother’s voice in his head.

 _The game, dear Matty, is on!_ he’d always say whenever he’d hare off to prove a new hypothesis or follow a new series of clues to his next deduction or strip a person or a situation bare of their defences. 

You’re right, Sherlock. It’s time to play.

Q mentally shook the tension from his frame and eased back again into his chair. He took a calm, measured sip of his water because he was thirsty, and what was about to happen was bound to take some time.

And the smile he gave Pelshaw when he returned his attention to her was colder than any he had ever given a misbehaving Double-O.

 _Bring it! You absolute, utter cow!_ It said.

“Maybe we should try some word association, first, before we ease into some of the questions I have about you and growing up in the Holmes family.”

Q settled his hands in his lap. “Certainly, Maggie. Whatever you think is best, of course.”

Pelshaw flipped open her notepad. “You know how this works, so I won’t be tedious.”

“Oh no. No one could _ever_ accuse you of being tedious.”

She ignored the biting tone and began.

“Child.”

“Adult.”

“Fruit.”

“Veg.”

“Lie.”

“Mallory.”

Pelshaw scribbled something in her notebook, but Q didn’t give a shite.

“Monarch.”

“Faithful.”

“Abuse”

“Power.”

More scribbles.

“Bed.”

“Sleep.”

“Sweet.”

“Sour.”

“Cow.”

“Pelshaw.”

“Agent.”

“Stalwart.”

“Sad.”

“Melancholy.”

“Family.”

“Done.”

They were far from done, however. 

Three hours later, Rand Aguilar placed a pint and a glass with two fingers of whisky in front of Q and sat down across from him in the small booth at The Angry Goose. A tiny, _tiny_ pub in Greenwich Rand would visit when he absolutely _had_ to get away from the job. One look at The Quartermaster coming out of Pelshaw’s office, and Aguilar had him down to the car park and off MI6 property in under five minutes.

“You didn’t give her an inch, did you,” Rand said after the first mouthful of his own pint.

“Not one bloody millimeter.” The small smirk that just barely crossed the Quartermaster’s face was cold and devious, far from warm. “Not that she didn’t try to push. Fucking nosy cow. Something I plan to remedy.”

Pelshaw had read his personal file. His “Eyes Only” file that M, the old M, had locked away when he became Quartermaster. The only copy that exists. Mallory must have inherited it from her. And shared it. Now it needed to disappear completely. 

Rand couldn’t help but laugh at Q. He was openly giggling. 

“What is so funny?” Hand with pint stopped half the way to his lips, he gave Rand that cocked dog head look. 

“You. You are. You are so fucking scary sometimes. Everyone’s afraid of the Double-Os, but it’s _you_ they should really be terrified of.” Rand waved a hand at the barmaid as she passed close by. “Hold that thought. We need food.”

Within minutes they’d placed an order for far more food than they probably needed as well as a second round of drinks. Rand knew from personal experience that the best way to shake off the residue of Psych was to either get pissed until he couldn’t see straight or to fuck until he couldn’t walk straight. He intended to provide The Quartermaster a menu of options in both categories if he wanted them. 

“Why am I the one they should be terrified of?” Q asked once the barmaid had left. He tipped his glass toward Aguilar before tossing back his whisky. “I am _not_ scary!”

“Yes, you are. It’s not a bad thing, Q. Far from it, in fact. You come across in this way that’s … imminently competent and seemingly compliant. But there’s not a sodding thing compliant about you. Is there, Quartermaster?” And Rand said it in a way that had a flush coming to Q’s face that had nothing to do with the alcohol. 

Take it at face value, love, he heard Eve’s voice tell him, and this time face value said that Aguilar was interested. _Very_ interested. Q ignored the part of him that tried to figure out why.

Q sipped his ale, and Rand noted the mischievous sparkle that lit his eyes. “No. Compliant isn’t exactly in my DNA,” he snorted. “And I wouldn’t be an effective Quartermaster if I was. Following the rules doesn’t bring my agents home.”

Q waved his empty whisky glass at the barmaid, gesturing for another. “I have a feeling that you’d like for me to be compliant. My read on people is usually never wrong.” At least not in certain circumstances. He glanced at Rand over the top of his glass of ale. “Wouldn’t that make a good note for that cow Pelshaw to scribble in her fucking files? The Quartermaster is ‘unprofessional’ with his subordinate agents.”

“Would that be such a bad thing, Q?” Rand smirked at him. “I’m sure Pelshaw has heard much more shocking things.”

Their food arrived before Q could reply, and they tucked in. He began sorting through the offerings, organising the finger foods he pulled to his empty starter plate in precise alignment, no one item touching another, especially not if they were different foods. He was in the middle of doing the same with his chips when he realised what he was doing and in front of whom. 

Oh, fuck! This was one of the reasons why he never ate in front of others who weren’t Moneypenny or R. Hot embarrassment surged through him, and his eyes shot to Aguilar across the table.

“My sister does the same,” Rand said with a fond, understanding smile once he’d swallowed the chip he’d been chewing on. “She finds the disorder stressful otherwise. Green beans and asparagus are her favourite veg. Corn niblets and peas are a nightmare. I used to cut up her cheese toasties into soldiers when we were small.”

It was then that Q realised all the food Aguilar had ordered for them were things easily organised and separated. Q melted a little inside. Somehow, Rand knew. He _knew_! Understood. And wasn’t repulsed.

“Thank you,” Q said with unaccustomed shyness. He popped a chip in his mouth and chewed before he could say anything to ruin the moment. Aguilar did the same.

After that, they focused on the greasy burgers with hot chips, fried green beans, halloumi sticks with marinara, and chicken wings with bleu cheese sauce. All of which went down easily with more ale and whisky and good conversation that had nothing to do with Margaret Pelshaw, Gareth Mallory, or anything at all to do with MI-fucking-6. 

Four hours later a sober 009 drove a mostly sober Quartermaster -- the man could probably drink Trevelyan under the table -- back to his home in Lambeth. Halfway there, Rand took a chance. He reached out and placed his hand on Q’s thigh, smiling when Q rested his hand atop it instead of jerking away. Then Q sighed and slumped a tad lower in his seat, splaying his legs out in front of him. The motion caused their joined hands to slide higher up Q’s leg, and Rand could feel Q’s penis stiffen beneath the wool of his trousers at the new contact. Q’s sigh this time was one of need, and Rand began caressing his penis with his little finger, drawing it up and down Q’s length until his stuttered moans of pleasure filled the car. 

Rand was delighted with Q’s responsiveness. 

When he pulled up to the kerb in front of Q’s townhome and put the car in park, Rand turned and suddenly found himself being thoroughly kissed by his Quartermaster. How long they snogged and unbuttoned and petted one another was anyone’s guess, but Rand was just about to suggest they take this inside when Q pulled away, and based on the apologetic look on the man’s face, Rand knew what the answer would be if he gave voice to his suggestion.

“I think I’d like being a bit compliant with you,” Q admitted with a chuckle. “And I couldn’t give a flying fuck what kind of notation Pelshaw puts in my personnel file.”

Neither of them had to voice the ‘but’ that hung in the sexually tense air between them.

“I’m not one for a random one-nighter with someone I work with, no matter how brilliant he is with his mouth and tongue and fingers. Complicates things.” He sounded truly regretful.

“You’re not with Bond nor Trevelyan,” Rand said. It wasn’t a question. He knew. 

“I’m not with anyone.” The ‘who would want me?’ of Q’s thoughts was cut off before it could fully form by Rand’s smile. One that lit up the dark interior of the car. 

“Excellent. Then I still stand a chance.”

Q shook his head, puzzled. “As much as anyone, I suppose.”

Rand leaned in and kissed Q gently. It was intimate and intense but not sexual. Q did not deny him and was slightly breathless when the agent pulled away. “One night isn’t what I’m looking for because I’m pretty sure not even a lifetime with you would be enough.”

A shy but mischievous smile that promised more than it denied tugged at Q’s lips a moment before he hid it away behind his professional face. “Goodnight, 009. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said and climbed from the car, shutting the door quietly behind him so as not to rouse his intensely nosey neighbours.

Rand’s eyes followed a very rumpled Q’s progress through the gate and up the stairs to the door of his townhome. “Indeed you shall, Quartermaster,” Rand said once Q was safely secured inside his home. “Indeed you shall.”

It was with a hopeful smile that Rand Aguilar drove away into the night.

A scant mile away, across one of London’s many bridges, Mallory stood from his desk and crossed to the credenza on the far wall where he poured two fingers of the single malt calling to him. He was going to need it to finish reading the updated psychological report on his Quartermaster.

It was far from what he wanted to see and now had him wondering just how he was going to handle this situation without putting Six into a tailspin once more. They had finally seemed to be making headway after losing his predecessor and the Major, and now...

Malloy sat back down behind his desk and continued reading Pelshaw’s review and opinions of the mental health of the Quartermaster. Half an hour later, after another two fingers of single malt, Mallory looked up at Pelshaw who’d been sitting patiently in a chair in front of his desk, tending to work via her mobile whilst he read, though she could have been playing Angry Birds for all he knew. Not a word had been spoken between them during the last hour since she had entered his office and handed him her review file. 

“From what you’ve presented to me here, Dr. Pelshaw, it seems we have an issue.” Mallory hesitantly began. “One I am not looking forward to having to deal with at the moment.”

“Explain to me what you mean when you say ‘an issue,’ sir.” She pocketed her mobile and took a sip of water from the glass on the table at her side.

“It’s all right here in black and white.” Mallory tossed the report on his desk. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but my Quartermaster is bat shite crazy. Highly intelligent, this we know, but secretive and calculating with questionable empathy and a predisposition to addictive behaviours. The man’s a bloody sociopath! Something that seems to run in his family. That’s the _issue_ I’m talking about, Doctor. Why Mansfield hired him to begin with let alone promoted him to Quartermaster … ” he rubbed at the headache that was starting to form behind his brows, “I’m going to need a new one. Can’t have a sociopath running Q-Branch.”

“The appropriate term is Antisocial Personality Disorder, but Q doesn’t have ASPD and he’s not ‘bat shite crazy’, as you so insensitively put it,” Pelshaw corrected him, tightly. “You’ll see, too, in the report other markers that indicate Q is on the autism spectrum, but very much on the high functioning end of it. He struggles with social cues and norms at times but not because he lacks empathy. If anything, The Quartermaster is _highly_ empathetic but has learned to box it up so it doesn’t overwhelm him when he’s making choices that will lead to people’s deaths. He’s secretive and comes across as calculating at times, but they’re self-preservation tools he’s had to employ, likely due to bullying when he was younger. We both know children are rarely accepting of those they perceive as different. But you want someone in his position to be both those things. Rather goes hand-in-hand with the job, I think. And his technological skills are a reflection not only of his high intelligence but of his fixation in that particular area, and you can’t tell me that Six isn’t better off with what he’s developed in terms of running agents out in the field as well as the equipment he kits them out with.”

“All that doesn’t negate the fact that he’s dangerous.”

“Why do you see him as a threat, M?” Pelshaw stared at him across the massive mahogany desk, a question for a question. 

“Because these qualities that you have identified tell me my Quartermaster is unpredictable, not to mention potentially unstable, and I don’t know what else!” Mallory practically threw open the file again with her notes on the Quartermaster. 

“Yes, but didn’t I say he was perfect for the role? Dangerous is rather what we do here, sir.” Mallory couldn’t help but notice the small self-satisfying smirk on her face. “His intellect, technical abilities, and focus, as well as the coping skills he has acquired over the years to assure his self-preservation and to balance his spectrum tendencies, make him the prime candidate for the role he plays.” Pelshaw paused and reached across the desk. Thumbing through the pages within the file folder she pulled out a few earmarked pages. “Not to mention his personal history and the role his family has played in his emotional development growing up. How it still affects his actions now.”

Mallory sat there, stunned for a moment by what she was suggesting. “He’s what we _want_ as Quartermaster?!”

“There’s no one better suited to the task. All those personality traits I mentioned make him strong enough to keep the Double-Os in line when it’s needed. They see a bit of themselves in him but recognise the empathy that’s there, too. He’s not afraid to make the tough call when more … direct measures are necessary to achieve our goals.”

“His kill count is notable,” Mallory said. He tapped the page detailing all the casualties Q was directly responsible for, an unsettling amount of red in the young man’s ledger. 

Pelshaw nodded. “Unfortunate but necessary, as so many things are in this job.”

Mallory thumbed through the report once more before leaning back in his chair. 

“You do realise this could blow up in our faces.” He looked pointedly at the physician across the desk from him. And if it did that very thing, it would not only be a nightmare for MI6, but they would both have the Foreign Secretary, not to mention ‘British Government’, demanding an accounting. Luck would not be on their side. 

But on the other hand, if he removed the Quartermaster from his role, he would have the same situation to deal with. Mallory weighed his options. 

“I’m going to rely on your call here, Dr. Pelshaw, and hope to God it doesn’t come back to bite us in the arse. That will be all, Dr. Pelshaw. Thank you for your input. On your way out, please ask Ms. Moneypenny to inform the Quartermaster I’ll expect him in my office first thing in the morning.”

“Of course, M.” Pelshaw took the folder from his desk, tucked it under her arm, and nodded her good evening.

Promptly at 8 o’clock the next morning, Moneypenny admitted the Quartermaster into M’s lair. He took the chair opposite the large, ostentatious desk -- Compensating much? Q wondered -- crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap. He felt surprisingly relaxed and focused for all that he was a tad hungover. Must’ve been the snogging. For when he looked in the mirror that morn, his lips were a bit swollen from 009’s thorough attention to them. They felt delicious. It was all he could do not to lick them at the memory.

M closed the file he’d been perusing and turned his attention on Q.

“Did it really have to be that hard?” When Q continued to stare blankly at him, he added for clarification, “The psych eval--”

“I know what you mean,” Q interrupted. He kept his annoyance reined in. “I don’t like people poking into my private life. It’s irrelevant and immaterial to the job I have been tasked with. You know that. That mention is in my personnel file. A file you leaked -- illegally so, I might add -- to Maggie Pelshaw.” Q’s right hand tightly gripped his knee, reminding himself not to bounce his leg as he continued to glare at Mallory. Unfortunately, his toes failed to obey and wiggled within his brogues. 

“Quartermaster, I understand the need for the privacy of your files, but in my position, sometimes I must use my discretion. It was important for Dr. Pelshaw to understand your entire background to effectively evaluate your status and to be in a position to assist you in the future if needed.”

“I don’t need...” Q scoffed. 

“We _all_ need at times, Quartermaster. I can assure you that the contents of your file are secure with Dr. Pelshaw.”

Not bloody likely, he thought, but said, “Yes, M,” aloud and rose from his chair. He would ensure even the paper file disappeared, and there would be no tangible evidence left of his connections and history. “Am I dismissed, M? I have a branch to run and a mission to prepare.”

M’s “Dismissed, Quartermaster” reached him when he was already halfway to the door. He sailed past Moneypenny with a terse nod in spite of the sympathetic look she gave him. Taking the lift down to the winding corridors that led to his branch, he rounded a bend and spotted 009 coming out of the gym. He was dressed casually in jeans and a blue jumper. Black hair still damp, Rand’s face was slightly flushed from the heat of his shower and he looked far too tall, dark, and handsome for Q to ignore. 

“Good morning, Quartermaster.” It was said with the same slight smile he gave Q before he climbed out of the car last night. Needful. Knowing. Hopeful.

Seeing it again in the morning with a mind not slightly fuddled with alcohol and lust, Q realised instantly that he wanted to see that smile again and again. And always only directed at him.

“Dinner at mine. 8 pm. Bring a nice red wine.” He slowed his pace only enough to share his own needful, knowing, hopeful smile and to brush a finger across Rand’s chest.

“It will be my pleasure, Q,” Rand’s simple words followed him down the corridor, and they were the best damn thing Q had heard in far too long.

**Author's Note:**

> Do let us know what you think about this offering.
> 
> “If you have consumed what we have laboured and invested in to create, and if you have found any enjoyment in it, please tell us so that we can recharge enough to do this again.” ~ paraphrased from kdreeva via Tumblr


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